


Sins of the Father

by jaimesselfishmachines



Series: Sinners and Saints (Are The Same In The End) [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Coercion, Dark subject matter, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intimidation, M/M, Mind Games, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Imbalance, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicidal actions, Suicide Attempt, Threats, Time Skips, Washington enjoys messing with Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-15 03:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13604220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: Nine years ago, Alexander Hamilton was given the privilege of serving beside the Hero of the Revolution, George Washington.It's a dream come true, and Hamilton will finally 'fly above his station' as the new Treasury Secretary of the Republic.Little did Alex know what Washington's real agenda was.





	1. Columbia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set just over a decade ago - before Alexander and Thomas were hired as Secretaries by Washington.  
> In the same verse as my series: "The Story of James Madison".  
> 

 

 THREE DAYS AGO

“I don’t wan’ to,” Alexander said, voice muffled by his awkward position over the desk. Alex attempted to shuffle out of the hold, but Washington was too strong, using his weight to keep Hamilton still against cool mahogany. Even in this precarious position, Alex couldn’t help but worry about the ink soaking into his shirt.

“You owe me, Alexander. Everything you are, is because I made it so.” George Washington was bent over Alex, whispering so close to his ear that Alexander shivered at the warm breath on his skin. Alex shifted forward, pressing himself uncomfortably against the desk in an attempt to flee from the outline of Washington’s erection. Alex lurched forwards – as far as he could – before Washington jerked him back into position by his wrists. “I can unmake you just as easily.”

“Sir!” Alexander’s voice rose in pitch as his fingers became pins and needles, the numbness slowly creeping up his limbs. Behind him, Alex heard the sound of Washington’s zipper. His breathing quickened as the reality of the situation descended upon him. Alex’s eyes found the door, and his conscience found religion, as he prayed fervently in his mind for someone – _anyone_ – to walk in and stop this madness. It was a long shot, the National Delegations had retired to their rooms and that day's proceedings had ended hours ago. Maybe Washington had made it so, arranged it so he wouldn't be disturbed. Alex thought about screaming, hoping that maybe a security guard or even a passerby would hear him, but knew that if Washington was doing this, the President was certain that he wouldn't be caught. If Alex  **did** scream, it would definitely incur some unseen wrath.  _What would happen when he got home?_  He stilled, his shoulders aching from the struggle and the sweat on his skin leaving him cramped against the smooth surface of the desk.

For a second, Washington released Alex, instead deciding to rest a warm palm on the small of his back. It lay there, almost innocuous, not searching hungrily, not gripping eagerly, but lying soft and flat and asexual. Still, it didn’t prepare Alex for the searing pain as Washington intruded inside him. Alex’s fingers fought to bar Washington’s thrusts but found themselves shoved roughly out of the way, curled at an unnatural angle, just centimetres from breaking under his commander’s might. Alex gave up fighting then; his brain still made sure to protect him and his livelihood. It didn’t matter how much pain he was in, he had to eventually be able to write his way out from under Washington’s hold.

“Shhh.” Washington cooed, widening his stance a little, and revelling in his ability to make Alexander as uncomfortable as possible, “Don’t cry, son.” His free hand entangled itself into the back of Alex’s skull, running his fingers almost lovingly through the strands of sleek black hair. Again, he threaded his fingers through Alex’s hair, this time, gripping tightly and wrenching upwards, forcing Alex’s body into a contorted tension.

Alex gasped, momentarily forgetting to breathe in the shock of being yanked by his scalp. He gritted his teeth, “I’m not your son.”

Washington grinned, allowing a scoff to escape him. Just to show he could, Washington tugged on Alex’s hair a little harder, thrusting punishingly as he did, holding his hips flush against a squirming Alexander. Washington laughed at Alex’s response – to melt into the coolness of the wood and cease any resistance. To ensure Alex’s compliance, Washington twisted his hand, and shoved Alex’s face into the unforgiving wooden surface. Alex screamed, the impact awakening a flare of fiery agony in his face, his skin splitting from the force as his cheekbone shattered on the edge of the desk.

Blood gushed from Alexander's wound, blurring his vision as it pooled beneath him. Alexander groaned as the hand on his neck pushed his face deeper into the mahogany. He wished himself to be anywhere but here: overpowered, weak, and in excruciating pain. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, maybe clemency, for having made the mistake of getting himself in this situation. His fiancé would hate him for cheating.

“Watch your tone.”

* * *

   
TWO DAYS AGO

“I’m sorry I hit you so hard.”

George’s face, in the limited field of vision Alexander still had, appeared to be genuinely apologetic. But the appearance of remorse on the President’s face really didn’t mean much to a light-headed Alexander. He knew better than to accept the apology on the face of it. Washington only ever apologized for leaving marks or any other indication of his wrongdoing, never the act itself. It wasn’t as though the bruises prevented further wrongdoing though. In fact, the more marks on Alexander’s pale skin, the more George seemed to leave.

“You do it again, and I’m going straight to the New York Post.” Alexander didn’t look up from the treaty he was authoring; too anxious of the fact that his face would betray the fear in his body. In the corner of his eye, though, he could still see the brownish stain in the edge of the desk where the blood from his wound had oozed into the intricate carpentry. Alex figured that Washington had cleaned up the rest, what with the faint smell of bleach in the air. Still, even with his ability to cover his tracks, Washington had missed the stain stuck in the cracks of the detailing. The small oversight gave Alexander a strange sense of hope - that somehow, someplace, sometime, Washington would be his own downfall.

George Washington sat back in his chair, clenching his jaw at Alexander’s defiance. George wanted nothing more than to smack Alex across the face, and watch the imprint of his knuckles bloom a beautiful purple, to measure just how malleable Alex’s skin was when faced with force, and how quickly it could turn defiance into complete compliance. George also knew that they were flying home today, and James Madison wouldn’t put his reputation above Alexander. Madison would throw all his resources in the path of discovering the source of the fading teeth marks on Alex’s waist. He needed to get James out of the way by some means…

“And who would believe the immigrant bastard?”

Alexander felt the wind knocked out of him as he paused in his writing, leaving a cursive t uncrossed. He looked up at George Washington, who, even when seated, towered over him. George smiled, watching how the pen shook as Alexander trembled in a mix of anger and fear. His humble origins had always been a soft spot, but Washington could make that all go away.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” George goaded, “How no one can look past that.”

Right now, more than anything, his face hurt. Alexander would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about killing George Washington. Thought about raising his hand and burying the pen in the President’s jugular. Thought about the panic on Washington’s face as the man struggled to find purchase on _that same desk_ as he bled out. Thought about Washington’s final words being a plea for help that would go unanswered. The images brought Alexander great satisfaction, but he also knew that he couldn’t return home without Washington by his side. The act would be treason. And Washington was so beloved by his people, no one would ever hear Alex’s side of the story; the case might not even make it to trial, an angry mob would bury him somewhere in the desert or worse yet, kill him by some inhumane and barbaric method.

“I’ll co-sign every idea you have as Treasury Secretary. Ensure it comes to fruition without resistance.” The President whispered it in a hushed tone, almost as though he was flirting.

Alexander shuddered in disgust, pretending not to see Washington palming his crotch through black suit trousers. Alex narrowed his eyes at the proposition, wincing when his left eye decided to rescind its cooperation, too swollen to accompany any expression of displeasure or distrust.

“What would I have to do?” Alex asked, because Washington never gave anyone anything for free. He wasn’t desirous of repeating the desk’s earlier events; the thought of letting Washington touch him again made Alex want to scream. Alex pushed his fiancé out of the mental equation; he didn’t need that kind of guilt whilst making a deal with the devil.

“Disagree with everything the new Secretary of State will say.” George said simply, as though doing so wouldn’t stymie the progress of the new Republic. “Jefferson, former Ambassador to –“

“France, I know.” Alexander didn’t know Thomas Jefferson very well, but with Angelica in England, he didn’t have anyone else to speak with in his native tongue. Alexander didn’t want to make an enemy of a man he’d never even met, much less a potential friend. But it was either this, or have the shadow of his upbringing follow him the rest of his life.

“What will it be, Mister Secretary?”

Alexander lowered his pen to the page, crossing the formerly abandoned cursive t.

 

* * *

  
PRESENT DAY

“What happened to you?” James asked. His planned greeting was quickly cut short when he saw Alexander. An ugly purple had splayed itself across the left side of Alex’s face, to the point where his eye was almost swollen shut. James rushed up to his fiancé, raising his arms to cradle Alex’s face in his hands.

Alex ducked out of the embrace before replying, “Bar fight with the Ambassador.” He slammed the door behind him with his foot, causing him to tip forward and dump his luggage unceremoniously onto the floor. He shook his head in annoyance and strode past a still all-too-concerned James. Alex didn't care. If he couldn't use his words to get out of it, then it was meant to be. He wondered if some part of him sought out the pain, if he had somehow known all along that it would happen.

“The _Ambassador_?” James didn’t have time to be shocked as he turned to follow Alex into the dining room. “Can you see? Did you go to the hospital?”

“No. I’m fine.” Alex’s tone was cool and calm, even as he bit the inside of his cheeks to stop from confessing. To be honest, he doesn’t remember much of the past week. Except for the black eye. _That_ he remembers plain as day. _That_ he could never forget. Still, Alex refused to turn around, instead busying himself with retrieving food items from the fridge. “Relax,” his voice was sharp, “I was with Washington.” It wasn’t a lie, just not the whole truth. He knows in his heart that he didn't cheat. That it was rape. That he didn't want it. But like Washington had said:  _who would believe the immigrant bastard?_

“And does the President know about your _diplomacy_?” James asked, his concern quickly being replaced with another emotion. The country’s future Secretary of the Treasury – in charge of negotiating trillion dollar trade deals with foreign nations – and Alex couldn’t talk himself out of a bar fight? James shook his head,  The United States was in trade talks with the Conference of South American Nations, and Alexander had found himself in the exclusive position of being the President’s sole aide on the week-long trip to the military base in Columbia. Still, as good as he was, Alexander got into a fistfight with an Ambassador… Why Washington was so forgiving of this behaviour, James would never understand. “Alexander, why can’t you ever stay out of trouble?”

"You're taking his side?" Alexander spun around, anger boldly on display; he closed in on James, eyes narrow and fists clenched. James didn’t move, choosing to wait as Alexander let his _next_ political missteps be known. Alexander pressed up against his fiancé, so close he could feel James’s breath on his face. Up close, the injury looked even more unsightly; his eye was all a dark red where white had once been, and watered constantly.

If James hadn’t been looking directly at Alex, he could have mistaken it for crying. As much as James figured it must have been painful for Alexander, he really wished Alex had had the forethought to cover it up. It… wasn’t the most dignified look for a man of such high standing in government.

Alex gritted his teeth, “Why couldn’t you just man up, and fuck me like I asked, huh? Why can’t you just give me what the fuck I want?”Alex knew he was picking a fight, knew he was being self-destructive, knew James would say no. James had always said no to the idea of pain during sex, especially if it meant inflicting it. He always said it made him as immoral as Mercer. Alexander didn't  _quite_ get the connection, but he kept the issue to himself, knowing that it vexed his fiancee almost to the point of infuriation. And an infuriated James Madison always preferred to keep his distance, preferred time alone, preferred the prevention of any injury.

This time was not like the others.

James twisted Alex’s arm behind his back, “Is this what you wanted so bad?” James, using his body weight, shoved Alex forward and against the wall. He was sick and tired of the pestering jabs about his manhood.

Alexander let out a strained sound, clenching under James’s grip, but making no effort to free himself from between James and the wall he was pressed up against. The bruise on his cheek stung, and Alex focused solely on the pain, pushing his face further into the drywall. James spat on his hand, before allowing it to dip below Alex’s waistband. He gripped firmly, prompting Alexander to squirm. Alex was forced to still when the grip on his arm tightened, painfully straining his shoulder. Slowly, James began to stroke at Alexander’s pulsing erection, eliciting sighs and moans from the smaller man. Still, James worked at him, succeeding in taking Alexander apart with just his hand. Something about watching Alexander struggle made his dick twitch, and he soon found himself painfully hard. Alexander had since turned to mush under him, calm and blissed out, whispering incoherent sounds under his breath.

“You wanted me to hurt you?” James thrust up against Alex’s ass, gripping his arm tighter. Alex nodded dumbly, eyes closed, mouth open, knees weak, as his orgasm shuddered through him. Hot, sticky cum coated James’s fingers, as he continued to stroke Alexander to softness. Alex, now exhausted, let his knees buckle beneath him, allowing himself to crash to the floor. His arm, still twisted in James’s hand, wrenched at the shoulder, dislocating with a hideous pop. Alex moaned lowly, halfway between pain and pleasure, hooded eyes staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

James recoiled, “What the fuck, Alex?”                               

Instantly, James released the arm in his hand, standing back in shock. Alex made no move to right himself, no move other than to press his bruised face roughly into the drywall. He sighed softly, seemingly content. James, on the other hand, was horrified. Why was he entertaining this scenario? Why did seeing his fiancé in so much pain excite him? Maybe Mercer had been right all those years ago. They weren’t very different in the end. The thought that he was just like his rapist, terrified him.

Alexander slumped forward with a groan, finding support against the kitchen wall. His arm was still unnaturally twisted behind his back, hand trapped in the slot between his shoulder blades. He started to shake, the sobs tearing through his fragile frame as he slid to the carpeted floor.

“Alexander.” James said, "What did you mean by me 'taking his side'?"

Alex didn’t respond. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard his name. He continued to sob, gently easing the position of his dislocated shoulder, as though it were the most precious thing in the world to him.

"WhatamIdoing? Wha - Wha - What?" Alexander began rambling, trying to focus on his fiancé's presence instead of the pain running through him. He had definitely slipped up this time, letting James see him like this. He couldn't let James know the truth, but he supposed that part of him wanted James to know. Wanted to make James stop Washington. But George Washington was all-powerful, he could make a scandal like this - could make Hamilton - evaporate into thin air. Alexander looked up at James, hoping to find comfort. "Why me?" It was an unanswerable question.

James's heart was heavy with the guilt of Alex's pain, despite being in the dark for most of it. He had dislocated his fiancé's shoulder, and that was cause enough. He had to protect Alex, by any means. “We should take you to a hospital.”

"N-no, just..." Alexander pushed off, supporting his weight with his good arm, "help me into bed. I'll go in the morning." 

James nodded silently, fearful that Alexander only said it to get away from him. That perhaps Alex was just trying to avoid another confrontation. "I'm sorry, Alex. I shouldn't have..."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr @ jaimesselfishmachines ^_^  
> 


	2. Cabinet Battle #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're nothing without Washington behind you."  
> Alexander believes it but hopes desperately that it isn't true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after Madison and Hamilton break up, but before Jefferson and Madison get together.  
> Some years after Chapter 1.

“You’re nothing without Washington behind you.” Thomas’s face was contorted in disgust, and Alexander wondered briefly if Jefferson saw through his façade of pretending to be okay. Alex wondered if Jefferson could see everything he had done to get to his current position in government. Hamilton – _immigrant bastard_ – was completely different from Jefferson – _cultured gentleman_ – and they both knew it. Alexander knew that Jefferson would never have had to make a deal with the devil to elevate his status, knew the man was powerful in his own right, knew he came from a long line of old money. As much as Alexander would never admit it, he sometimes wished that he could be like Jefferson in some respects, to be able to command authority without Washington’s backing.

Alexander looked into the intense eyes of the Secretary of State, wanting desperately to pull the man aside, to confess the truth about his friend George Washington, how the President really got his kicks, and what really happened behind locked doors. Alexander’s eyes glanced over at James momentarily, trying to convey contrition for the Cabinet meeting’s insults. James, by this time his ex-fiancé, didn’t reciprocate the eye-contact, keeping himself, once again, glued firmly to Thomas’s side and thus putting himself, once again, firmly in what was dubbed the _CAVO_ : _Camp of Alexander’s Virginian Opposition._

Alexander didn’t blame James for switching sides. Back when they were still together, basically planning their wedding, the relationship had become strained. Even after authoring the Federalist Papers together, James seemed to side more and more, ideologically, with Jefferson. That wasn’t necessarily a problem, but James always said: _“I was born a Virginian, and I will die a Virginian”_ whenever Alexander protested the alliance with Jefferson. Admittedly, whenever James called him out on his motives, Alex stayed secretive, always refusing to explain why the Virginian friendship put him in such a precarious position. Over time, the constant disagreements wore on them both, with Alexander being forced to defend positions and pick fights that he didn’t even believe in, just to hold up his end of the bargain with Washington. Eventually, they both agreed to call it quits… though it seemed that James ‘agreed’ long before Alexander did.

“Hamilton!” Washington’s voice struck Alexander, crushing him under its weight. Any comeback Alexander could have thrown at Thomas died on his tongue, smothered by the panic crawling its way down his throat. He huffed out a laboured breath, resolving not to look weak in front of either his ex-fiancé or political enemy, no matter how much their shared animosity had been prompted solely by his deal with Washington. The group turned their attention to where Washington was beckoning Alexander to follow him. Alexander seemed to shrink, and Thomas regarded him with an expression of confusion, before promptly returning to his usual smugness.

“Daddy’s calling!” Thomas sang with a smirk. Although, Alex was willing to swear in a court of law that Thomas had wavered in his delivery, perhaps intentionally, and purposefully undermined the real bite of the statement.

It still stung.                                                                                               

Alex wanted to protest, to say some clever and scathing retort, to leave Thomas rueful of the comment. But words failed him. The last time Alexander had spoken in denial of Washington’s _‘paternal instinct’,_ it had left him with a broken eye socket, shattered cheekbone, and an inability to see out of his left eye for almost a month.  Alexander’s gaze shifted once more to James, who shook his head, pointing at the ever-so-patient president who stood some fifty feet away. Alex nodded, schooling his expression in order to deny the Secretary of State the satisfaction of seeing him downtrodden. Alexander turned away to see after Washington, narrowly missing the concerned look in Jefferson’s face that just about evaded Alexander’s visual field.

Alexander’s footsteps trudged heavily behind a quickly striding George Washington, resembling none of Washington’s confidence, knowledge, or stature. Anyone who knew Alexander could tell you that the two shared a strange relationship, with Washington co-signing and humouring Alexander’s ambitious exploits, no matter how seemingly foolish or impulsive. _Still, if Washington thought the plan was a good idea_ , was the sentiment of both the Cabinet and the general populace, _then maybe it had its merits._

Washington turned the corner, the tip-tap of his buckled shoes turning to silence as they met the plush, carpeted interior of the Oval Office. Hamilton took another few seconds to catch up, and by the time he’d reached Washington’s office, the President was no longer in view. Even so, Alex shuffled in, his feet becoming heavier and heavier with every step, as if his knees locked themselves, ram-rod straight, with iron chains. Alex continued through the doorway, even as he imagined a quicker, smarter version of himself bolting back the way he came. As though alien to Alexander’s thoughts, his legs continued on, nearing the simple writing desk – _pale oak, not rich mahogany_ , his brain noted for the umpteenth time, _not that desk_ – in search of George Washington. Alexander cleared his throat, if only to avoid having to swallow the bitterness of dread.

“Mister President?”

Alexander’s head snapped back to the sound of the door slamming behind him. George was fiddling with the knob, at least, that could be assumed by the thud of the deadbolt sliding into place, and the smooth pivot George performed as he pocketed the key. Alexander’s brain went into warp drive, hunting for and numbering all alternative exit routes as quickly as possible, but when Washington began to speak, Alexander focused his attention on the sleek baritone.

“Do you have any recording devices on you, Alexander?” Washington asked the question as he passed by Alexander, to lean against the front of the desk, never taking his eyes off his Treasury Secretary.

Alexander opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, his jaw tightening against his best efforts. He wished his body to stop betraying him every time he was alone with the President, but the way his fingers fiddled with any article of clothing within reach, showed him that it would be a long time before he was _normal_ again. He felt helpless; the same way he did when he was twelve years old and his mother left him an orphan, or when he was seventeen and everything he had known had been wiped away. Back then, he had written his way out. His words had been his salvation, but right now, he was rendered mute in the shadow of Washington’s authority. He shook his head in response to the question, not trusting himself to speak.

“Mind if I check myself?”

Alexander definitely minded if it involved Washington anywhere near him. Alexander knew, without a doubt, that Washington didn’t truly think there was a recording device on his person. All electronics were silenced during the Cabinet Meeting, and any recording device would have created electronic feedback impossible to ignore. Still, Alexander acquiesced to Washington’s request, not wanting to find out what kind of pain would reward his refusal.

“G-go ahead.”

Washington pushed off the edge of the desk, nearing Alexander. He pointed to the placket of Alexander’s green coat, before reaching out to glide his fingers lovingly over the seam, parallel to the large buttons. Alexander ignored the stroking fingers, turning away from Washington as much as he could, hoping that if he ignored the entire situation, it would will itself away. Alexander tried not to shudder as Washington closed the gap between them, hunching over to press his lips to the space under Alexander’s ear.

“You did well, Son.” Washington whispered, tracing Alexander’s jawline with an index finger before leaning back against the desk. Alexander felt his body shaking, and hoped it wasn’t as obvious to Washington as it was to him. The faint aroma of orange musk invaded Alexander's nose and danced around him, penetrating the finely-woven fibres of his suit. It wasn't enough for Washington to violate Alex's person, his cologne had to as well. Washington continued, “And you look so good in green… Take off your coat.”

Alexander unbuttoned the coat slowly, his nervous fingers mangling their movements as they fought to display what could be considered as only the most rudimentary example of dexterity. Alexander pulled the coat down his shoulders and shrugged himself out of it, laying it over the back of the chair. This time, there was no James Madison to worry about, no guilt that he was somehow cheating on his fiancé against his will. Washington’s hands were on him again, continuing the farce of searching for the non-existent recording device. Washington was patting him down, crouching lower and lower as he became disgustingly over-attentive at Alexander’s inseam, using it as a pretext to fondle Alexander through his pants. Alexander kept his eyes fixed on the clock in the corner of the room, withheld from Washington his visage of shame.

“I don’t want this.” Alexander’s voice shook as he fought to keep his nerves from overwhelming him whilst the President’s hands found themselves palming at the seat of his pants. He could still get out of this with some semblance of his dignity intact.

Washington laughed softly, a sound barely distinguishable from a heavy exhale, “Don’t want what? The advancement of your career?”

Washington didn’t have to call him a bastard, or an immigrant, or a whoreson this time. All Alex had to do is walk across the wing to his corner office, and behold how far he had come from that little island in the Caribbean. Maybe this was the price of his progress.

No.  
  
Regardless of what Washington had done for him, it had come at too high a cost. It had allowed his promotion, but broken his relationship with James. It had given him power, but it had left him isolated and alone, with no one but Washington on his side for support. It had allowed him to travel, but it had also forced him over that desk in Columbia. It had robbed him of his sight, his bodily autonomy, his freedom, and his peace of mind.

Washington went back to his fondling, pulling at Alexander’s shirt until it came untucked from his pants. He let his hands slip up under the crisp, white shirt. Alexander pretended not to feel the way Washington drew patterns on his skin, as though claiming ownership. Alexander pretended not to see the shadow of Washington’s hand hide from view, as the President began stroking himself to the objectified form of Alexander. It was almost as though Washington didn’t care what or who Alexander was; just that he could be manipulated. Alexander let out a sorrowful sound, an audible marker of his self-disgust. It was definitely fucked up that he felt a twisted sense of gratitude, even _while_ he was being sexually assaulted. _It could be worse,_ he thought, _at least it wasn’t as bad as Columbia._

Alexander’s lips quivered as the tears began to roll down his cheeks. His jaw ached, and his skin itched as he fought the urge to claw it off where Washington had touched him. There was nothing he could do, except maybe kick out and hope the key would fall from Washington’s inside pocket. Feeling the drops of wetness on his scalp, Washington looked up.

“No… Alexander.” Washington’s expression softened as he stood to his full height, “Shush, don’t cry.” He pulled Alexander against his chest, a contradictory expression of genuine comfort for an emotionally distressed subordinate. Even against Washington’s chest, Alexander clenched his fists, bracing them against the president in an effort to maintain a little distance between them.

“Getoffme. Don’ttouchme. Getawayfromme.” Alexander’s words were mashed together as his fight-flight-freeze response decidedly switched to _fight_. He pounded cuffed fists against the broadness of Washington’s chest, seeing only the blur of pale blue and tan fabric through his teary eyes. Still, he fought with all his might for some leverage in the carpet, but Washington was already against the desk, with nowhere else to be pushed.

“Alexander,” Washington said the name like a warning. When Alexander did not cease his assault on the president, Washington made him cease. “Alexander!” He gripped Hamilton tightly by each bicep, crushing each muscle in his iron grip. Alex whimpered, allowing his façade of strength to crumble before the great and powerful hero of the revolution, George Washington. He said nothing, unable to even choke out any of the words forgiving enough to stay in his head. Sobs wracked his body and a sense of numbness spread over him. Alexander was exhausted, and even as Washington commanded him to leave, he stood shakily, silently sobbing. Alexander knew he had screwed up, big time.

“M-my career… Sir..?” It was too late to undo all the damage thus far, to smooth things over with any enemies he had made in Congress. It was too late to fix his relationship with James, and too late for any semblance of _normal_. Washington always stood in judgement, and as much as Alexander wanted to keep his job, part of him wished Washington would fire him. He might go back to being an immigrant, bastard, whoreson, a political nobody, but at least he would have his freedom. But since when had Alex ever been that lucky; as though Washington would ever willfully release one of his playthings from under his dominion? 

“Go home, Alexander.” Washington stood by the open door – Alexander doesn’t remember the President ever moving – key hanging limply from an index finger. “You’re clearly overwhelmed by your current workload. Maybe some time off will do you some good.”

Alexander shrunk internally, wondering if Washington’s ambiguity meant he was supposed to grovel, and promise to be good. He wondered whether it was a veiled warning, a repeated promise that Washington always had the power to unmake Alex, if he ever felt like it. Despite that, Alex took the command on the face of it, nodding his thanks as he reached for his coat. He laid it over his arm and shuffled towards the door, nodding towards Washington.

“Thank you, Mister President.” Alexander stated respectfully, the masquerade of professionalism firmly back in place, even though his appearance would display nothing of the sort.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, Mister Secretary.”

***

 


	3. Unknown Similarities in Forced Disparities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Ch 2.

Hamilton shuffled out of the door, adjusting his suit-vest, tucking in his shirt, and smoothing down his pants legs. He suspected that he looked more than a mess, with twisted garments, a reddened, blotchy face, and eyes swollen and puffy from crying. Alex ran his fingers through his hair, in an effort to calm himself as he began the journey back to his office.

 “Hamilton.”

Alexander knew the voice before he had even turned around. Jefferson was the second to last person that Alexander wanted to see right now. He didn’t stop in his stride, staring straight ahead as he called out, “What’d you want, Jefferson?”

“Alexander, wait.” Jefferson ran after Alexander. Jefferson’s expression displayed worry clear as day; and for a second, Alexander wondered if Jefferson had perhaps had an ear to the door, or otherwise overheard the exchange between him and Washington. “I wanted to see how you were.”

Alexander froze, taken aback by Jefferson’s attempt at friendliness. Maybe this was one of Washington’s tests. Maybe this was one of Jefferson’s tricks. But at this moment, he could do with a friendly face, Washington’s deal be damned. Alexander searched for a familiar smugness, waited for Jefferson’s face to revert to disgust, but it didn’t. Alex wondered if Thomas could smell his shame, or if Washington’s cologne covered it up.

“Excuse me?”

Jefferson seemed unsure of himself, wringing his hands as he spoke to Alex in hushed tones. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the Oval Office, “You just came from your meeting with Washington…” Jefferson scanned Alex from crown to sole, as if giving himself time to come up with some euphemism to describe Alexander. When the dignified manner eluded him, Thomas settled for, “...and you look like shit.”

It was at this time in their routine conversations, that Alexander Hamilton would tell Thomas Jefferson, ‘with all due respect, fuck off.’ Whilst the phrase was generally apt, Alexander elected instead to continue walking. His mind, with every step, dangled the fanciful idea in front of him: This was his chance to change the narrative, to tell the truth, no matter what the consequences.

But he didn’t.

Alex found shelter in the illusion of safety, in the iron cage of Washington’s so-called protection.  Alexander had become the man Washington needed him to be, and that was that. “You came all the way here to insult my appearance, Mister Secretary? Surely, there is a better use of your time?”

“Did you…?” Thomas Jefferson stood stiffly. He looked uncomfortable, gazing at Alexander through his curls, like a sheepish little boy. He bit his bottom lip, then released it with a soft pop. Alexander saw Jefferson swallow hard; perhaps deciding that whatever insult he had on his tongue wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. Thomas brushed his hair back with a damp palm and returned to the suave swagger he usually exhibited. “I’m not sleeping with James.”

“Thanks for that. But James is free to sleep with whomever he wants.” It hurt to think that James had already moved on, but Alexander wouldn't blame him. James deserved the world, and he had gotten far from it with Alexander. He didn't think James would receive particularly better fare with Thomas, but Virginians seemed to ooze state pride; at least they would have that in common. Alexander rolled his eyes, knowing that Thomas wouldn’t waste time coming all the way down to the South Wing just to tell him that, even if it was a prime opportunity to antagonize him. He had to know more than he was letting on. Alexander clutched his coat closer to his stomach, stopping short as he winced from the strain of his bicep. If Jefferson noticed it, he didn’t comment. “Are we done, Jefferson? I just got leave, and I’d like to take it.”

Even if his internal thoughts were rebellious, Alexander truly feared Washington. Maybe Thomas Jefferson genuinely meant well, meant to see after his well-being, meant to be concerned for him, but Alexander couldn’t give Thomas the opportunity to be a thorn in Washington’s side. In a way, by continuing to be curt, almost rude, Alexander was protecting the entire administration. He was going to keep that deal, if only to avoid the worst of Washington’s wrath.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Thomas said, glancing over Alexander’s shoulder, “Je suis désolé pour vous retenir.” Thomas always rather converse in French, but with so few speakers in Congress, the letters to and from Angelica had to suffice.

Hamilton nodded, hoping that his contrite expression could make up for his future actions. “Merci, Monsieur.” He said, finding comfort in his mother tongue, and a new-found respect for the man before him.

 “De Rien,” Jefferson said, stepping aside, and allowing Alexander to pass unimpeded.

Thomas stared intently at the closed Oval Office. He didn't know his planned actions, and he didn't know what the outcome would be, but his intentions were noble. He waited patiently for Alexander’s footsteps to fall out of earshot before knocking on the President’s door. 

 

* * *

 

           

Thomas levied the accusation straight at the President, “I never believed you could be so brazen.” 

“Watch your tone, Thomas.” George looked up from his study of Alexander’s draft, displeased with Thomas’s intrusiveness.

Thomas strode up to the desk, banging his fist on it. “I swear to god, if you did _anything_ to that boy…” Thomas didn't know why he was defending the Treasury Secretary, especially after the immigrant bastard's exercise in being as insufferable as possible for no damn reason except to seemingly antagonize him. Still, Thomas was more than aware of Washington's ability to twist any situation to his advantage. The president was a calculating opportunist, with a knack for finding and using any weakness he could against a person. With Alexander's hero-worship attitude towards the president, Thomas knew how vulnerable Alexander was. Thomas felt a certain need to protect Hamilton from experiencing any exploitation under Washington's  _tutelage._

Washington stood to full height, keeping his eyes on Thomas the whole time, Alexander’s draft now forgotten in his hand. “You’ll do _what_ , Thomas?” George clenched his jaw and clasped his hands behind his back. He scrutinized Thomas’s anger carefully, internally dismissing it. He laughed, though the sound was hoarse as it forced its way up out of his mouth. “You’ll drink yourself to death? You’ll do eight lines of coke and puke your guts out in the Senate bathroom?”

Thomas shrank as Washington reminded him of his earlier mistakes, reminded him of the fragile man beneath the bravado and the diplomatic experience. Washington had always been a friend, but after Thomas’s misdemeanors, and his overdose, Washington turned a friendly favour into a never-ending circle of extorting Thomas for political, social, and egotistical gain. Thomas exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He would never be able to outrun his addictions or – god – the things he had done for Washington just to keep up his squeaky-clean image in the public eye.

Thomas pushed the image of his most undignified moment out his head, straightened his jacket, and pursed his lips. “I swear...” Thomas’s voice faded away as Washington neared him, cradling his skull.

“And I’ll always be there to pick up the pieces, and clean up after you.” Washington leaned in and whispered with a smile, so close that Thomas could feel the words ghost his lips, “After everything I’ve done for you, Thomas, you have some nerve accusing me of impropriety.”

Thomas wondered if it was perhaps more appropriate to have pushed the issue with Alexander before coming in here. _Impropriety_ was the very definition of what Washington had done. Thomas manually removed himself from Washington’s grip, shoving the president as he did so.

“One day, George. Someone will tell the truth about you.” Thomas glared at his oldest friend and confidante ~~and rapist~~ , pivoting past the president and letting his fingers grace the bronze letter opener on the desk. He gripped the decorative handle tightly. “And at that moment, _I’ll_ be there to see you fall.”

“Well, then!” Washington chuckled, loud and enthusiastic, as though it was the most far-fetched idea in the world. He patted Thomas’s cheek patronizingly. “Try your best to stay sober ‘til then, huh?”

Thomas felt the anger flood through him, but his AA meetings had taught him how to handle his emotions the healthy way. He loosened his grip on the letter opener, counting the options in his head. Stabbing the President of the United States would be what was considered _unhealthy._ Thomas turned on his heel, but not before giving the President one last warning. “You can’t outrun your sins forever.”

“My conscience is clean.” Washington sat down, silently disregarding the seemingly foolish vein of Thomas’s threat. He was the president. The people would never turn against him. And regardless of what they said, both Thomas and Alexander knew it. “It took two to tango, Thomas. Remember that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip before Chapter 4.


	4. Fruit From the Poisonous Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set a *quite* a few years after Ch. 3  
> (All the events of "The Heartbroken Present of James Madison" (https://archiveofourown.org/series/390901) occur in the interim, though not particularly relevant.)  
> Summary: Thomas falls off the wagon and cheats on James with Alexander. Gets sober again.  
> Coerced into sex with Washington, then attempts suicide after a confrontation with James.  
> Alexander exposes Washington's long-standing abuse; Thomas is spared from coming forward.

“Thomas?” Alexander whispered, knocking softly on the door. The full moon had illuminated Alexander’s path from the bar to the White House, even with the spasming in his chest and the swaying in his step telling him to go home. Alexander didn’t even know if Thomas was here, or whether he had already retired to his quarters with the First Gentleman. Even as Alex stood here, soft flakes of snow coating his eyelashes, his doubts coaxing him to turn away; he decided to knock again, leaning against the frame as he did.

President Jefferson opened the door with an unexpected enthusiasm, eyebrows raising in surprise when he saw, of all people, Alexander Hamilton at his doorstep. “Hamilton,” was the selected greeting, “what are you doing here?” He used his free hand to tighten his housecoat about him, shivering as the frigid breeze blew past him and into the house.

Hamilton almost pitched forwards into the foyer, “D’ya have a minute?” Hamilton worried his bottom lip and hoped Thomas wouldn’t slam the door in his face. Thomas regarded the flush in Alex’s cheeks carefully, wondering why Alex didn’t shiver, considering he was wearing no coat at all.

“It’s after midnight,” Jefferson said, glancing at his watch, and then nervously up the stairs as he debated letting Hamilton in. The fresh snowfall would have made the journey home a little more arduous, but it wasn’t so far that it was unmanageable. Thomas hesitated; reminding your new husband of a six-year-old transgression is not the way you go about getting a marriage to last.  “Does James know you’re here?”

Hamilton’s gaze shifted, unfocused and glassy, to a random patch of snow on the White House lawn. “No, he doesn’t.” Hamilton leaned into Thomas, as close as he could without crossing the threshold, and said, “And he can’t ever know, either.” Thomas’s expression hardened in distrust as he recognized the scent he had suspected earlier: whiskey.

“Hamilton, if you came here to self-destruct, I’m not going to enable you.” Thomas’s voice was firm and unequivocal as he moved to slam the door in Alex’s face. “Do I need to call you a cab?”

“Please,” Hamilton pushed against the door, as he took on a sense of urgency, “it’s about Washington.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes, “Is anything you tell me going to be grounds for my impeachment?”

Alexander exhaled heavily, his breath visible in the cold air. “I think he killed someone.”  


 

* * *

  
Thomas had said it was a bad idea, that nothing good could come of it, but Alexander was not to be convinced otherwise. When it was clear that Alex couldn’t and wouldn’t be talked out of going, Thomas offered to accompany him up to the prison in the name of solidarity, but Alexander insisted on going alone.

“I can’t have your entire Secret Service detail following me up there.” Alexander said forcefully, “You’re the President, and you still have another campaign to win in two years. The American public won’t forget you digging up old history.” Alexander pinched his nose, attempting to stave off the migraine behind his eyes. The conversation was starting to wear on him, and there was no doubt that the Oval Office floor was exhausted too. Thomas and Alexander had spent the better half of the morning pacing up and down as each man sought to convince the other that he was right about the matter. 

“It’s over, Alexander.” Thomas retorted, keeping his voice quiet to avoid alerting James. Knowing their shared history, James wouldn’t be wrong for any suspicions of infidelity. “The past is the past. Tearing the stitches out of your old wounds isn’t going to help anything!”

“ _Your_ old wounds, Thomas. You didn’t take the fall in this. You got out unscathed.” Alexander jabbed his finger into Thomas’s chest with every accusation. For a second, he wondered if he was being selfish, centering himself in a situation that both he and Thomas shared. He had been just over twenty years old when Washington stole his innocence in Columbia, and even now, he couldn’t understand why Washington had so enjoyed tormenting him for all that time _._ “I need to know why he chose me!”

“He _chose_ me too, but you don’t see me seeking out more pain.” Thomas shook out his curls, raising his arms up to tie his hair into a bun. Thomas turned to face Alexander, stress etched into his very essence. It had been six years since Washington pled guilty, and even though Thomas had – out of the public eye – gone to therapy to recover from his internalized trauma, he did still have a few unhealthy coping mechanisms, namely, denying he had ever been victimized at all. Sometimes, his mind would toy with the idea of _why me,_ but eventually, Thomas always chalked it up to his ever-so-opportune vices. “For fuck’s sake, why now?”

“I need closure.” The words sailed through the room on the trailing end of Alexander’s breath. He was hurting, though even the thought of seeing Washington again made his throat close up and pulse race. Alexander saw the pain behind Thomas’s eyes, but tried to ignore it for his own sake. If Alex factored Thomas into every decision he made, he might just end up in that post-Washington political abyss.

“Well, you got it. He pled guilty.” Thomas deadpanned, wishing that all this could be proverbially put to bed, preferably a bed on the inside of a jail cell encased in fifty feet of concrete, down a mine shaft.

“I wanted to see the look on Washington’s face when he saw that **I** had been his downfall.” Alexander’s eyes were bloodshot, and Thomas could see it in the younger man’s stagger; Alexander was far past rationality.

“Then you should have gone to the sentencing.”

“The plea deal didn’t involve an allocution.”

“You wanted the _specifics_ to be a matter of public record?” For some reason, he could imagine Washington relishing the experience, being able to spill all of the sordid details of their respective secrets for the pleasure of the American public. Thomas shuddered at the thought.

“He never had to apologize.”

Thomas paced, clutching his forehead. It was on rare occasions like this, when he realized just how raw the past still was, that Thomas thought about having a drink. But he never indulged. Thomas knew he was always just one sip from ruining his life. He couldn’t go back to that deep, dark place, the one that reminded him only of Washington. Still, he wondered if kissing the taste from Hamilton’s mouth would count as a relapse. Thomas shook his head, collapsing into the plush office chair. He sighed.

“Maybe he isn’t sorry.” Thomas said in a soft tone, almost dismissive of Alexander’s concerns, “You need to understand that closure will not come from this wild-goose chase.” It wasn’t intentional; he was just too weighed down with his own worries. He pulled at his desk drawer – warm cedar; Thomas had requested the same wood for every desk across the Capitol, just to avoid Alex’s triggers – and retrieved his pill bottle. Seeing Alexander’s alarm, he held up a reassuring hand.  The pill bottle rattled as Thomas shook out a green pill. He threw it back and swallowed hard. Thomas explained as he leaned his weight onto his elbows, rubbing his temples in slow, circular motions. “For my anxiety.”

“Look, ’m sorry if you can’t handle it, but I am going to see Washington, and you can’t stop me.” Alexander said, puffing his chest out, “At least _you_ got out of it easy; _you_ still got everything he promised you.” Alexander’s voice was resentful, supported by over two decades of bitterness. Thomas was out of his chair before he knew what he was doing.

Thomas roared, “You’re not going, Alexander!” His hands grabbed purposefully at Alexander’s collar, slamming him against the wall. “And I will use every tool at my disposal to prevent you from leaving this city.” He was huffing, chest heaving, eyes focused and unwavering. He knew he was projecting, knew that all this anger was really directed at Washington, at his past alcoholism and addiction, that Alexander was just an easy target. That Washington had probably thought the same thing: that he and Alexander were just easy targets. His fingers twitched around Alexander’s throat, knowing better than to squeeze, but wanting to do so anyway. Alexander’s breathing hitched, and Thomas could feel the man’s heart pulsing through his chest. It made him feel powerful, and for a second, he tightened his fingers around Alex’s throat, watching intensely as the skin bulged beneath the steady pressure. Thomas smiled, watching as Alexander’s face began to redden, his mouth opening as he struggled to take in air. He smelt the liquor on Hamilton’s breath, and debated whether or not to steal a sordid taste. The panic in Alexander’s eyes made the decision for him.

Thomas let go, “A-Alex, I’m so sorry,” retracting his hands so quickly they were a blur to the visual field.

Strike Two: this was the second time Thomas’s hands were around Alex’s throat in recent history. Alexander was coughing forcefully as he folded in on himself. He attempted to find purchase on any surface on the way down, succeeding only in sending a lamp clattering to the floor. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what just happened. Hands clutching his throat protectively, Alex tilted his head up to gaze at the new President, Thomas Jefferson.

“Mister President,” Alexander said, wheezing; he was well-practiced in professionalism and the euphemisms it came with, “be very careful this Office doesn’t corrupt you, too.” He straightened out his clothing as he regained his breath.

Alexander didn’t need to mention the similarities between Jefferson and their former mentor. How Washington had ruled by the appearance of goodwill, and when that didn’t get him his way, ruled by threats, brutality, and sexual violence. Alexander kept his nerves under control, even as Washington’s face flashed behind his eyelids. He pushed himself into standing position, keeping his distance from Thomas.

“I will send a car round in the morning,” Thomas said in a gesture of good faith. Still, the expression on Thomas’s face was stormy. “I think it’s time I retired for the night.”

Alex took that as his cue, navigating the familiar hallways to let himself out. “Alexander, wait.” Jefferson skipped ahead of Alexander, holding his hands open and outstretched, in a motion for Alexander to stop. “Take a jacket; it’s snowing out.”


	5. Lafayette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton wants closure.  
> Set immediately after Ch 4.

Alexander watched as Washington shuffled into view on the other side of the reinforced glass, accompanied by a stoic-looking warden. Washington, even when stripped of his titles and accolades, still commanded a certain kind of authority, every step making Alexander want to shrink more and more into his chair. The chain between Washington’s feet dragged on the plain steel floor, unnerving Alex, but nothing could have prepared him for seeing Washington in the flesh.

George Washington, the former president, entered the room with a confident swagger, eyes quickly surveying the room and its contents. A single steel table with a steel chair on either side, and camera in the corner recording his every move. Satisfied with the accommodations, Washington sunk into his chair, exhaling peacefully when his eyes settled on Alexander. He grinned, raising his shackled wrists to place his palms on the table separating him and Hamilton. “You like the role reversal, Alexander?” He shook his arms a little to exhibit the jangling of the cuffs.

“I – no.” Alexander swallowed around the lump in his throat, suddenly unable to muster the courage to speak. He twiddled his thumbs, wondering how to phrase his next sentence, even as his vocal cords seemed to shrivel. Unwanted memories of confinement under Washington’s command invaded Alex’s mind, something which George seemed to enjoy him reliving. The warden nodded to Alexander, who gave silent permission to leave them alone. She exited, locked the door behind with a clung, before standing guard outside.

“What, you here for a conjugal?” George leaned in, placing his hand gently  over Alex’s, a stray finger gracing the skin on Alex’s thumb that was just within reach, “if you missed me so much, you could have written me back.” Washington darted his tongue out to moisten his lips as though preparing for a kiss, his eyes sparkling with glee. Alexander snatched his hand away, eyes wide in shock at how brazen Washington still was. His lips contorted in disgust at the man in front of him.

Clearing his throat, Alexander said, “Why do you keep sending me letters?” From inside his coat, Alexander retrieved a stack of envelopes of varying colours, ranging from brown to white. Some torn, some heavily worn and folded, some neatly creased, but all of them read obsessively, the letters splayed out like an open secret, heavy and symbolic between the two men. Alexander could recount every word of each, tell you what colour the ink was, and – without blushing – explain how graphic the description was. He might not reveal the crimes each thinly-veiled confession recounted, but he knew by now that there were enough details to press Washington for an apology. “I know they aren’t about me.”

Washington smirked, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t answer, just counted the seconds as the silent space grew between them. Under the table, Alexander dug his nails into his wrist in an effort to ground himself. He wished he was still drunk as last night, had in his stupor, told Thomas the real reason for him coming down here. He wished he had taken that shot before he left this morning, but he couldn’t show weakness, not here. If Washington was going to confess his sins, he would do it on his own terms.

“You always were my favourite.”

“How many others are there?” Alexander asked, fierce determination in his eyes.

George averted his gaze, and shrugged, before answering, “Others?”

Hamilton would not be distracted. “If I was your favourite, that means there are others.”

“Smile, son. Don’t look so serious.” George smiled fondly as he regarded their times together, as though they had been young lovers instead of rapist and victim. Washington scratched absent-mindedly at his head before laughing joyfully, a full and bold sound that knocked Alexander back in his chair. George’s voice was glossy velvet, wrapping the words with cherished warmth, completely out of place for the dull, grey environment. “I suppose I have had sex with others, as I once did with you.”

“You mean you raped me.”

“You wanted it, Alexander.” George said, his response far too flippant for the accusation, “Secretly, you did. If you didn’t, you would have quit.”

“I loved my country.” Alexander paused, debating whether or not to leave. Playing mind games with George Washington was always a guaranteed loss. His hands shook and he clasped them under the table to calm the tremors. “And Thomas, did he want it?”

“Ah. The president too busy to come down?” George replied with a grin. Alexander regretted bringing Thomas into this. “I pled guilty to one count, and I’m not about to confess to any crimes I didn’t commit. Still, say I did have sex with Thomas, it probably would have been in one of his drugged-up bouts, and he would have come to me _begging_ for anything to stop the ache in his body.” George said it in a tone that Alex knew too well. The cocky one that showed he was unshakeable, unmoveable, unwavering in his power, a tone he somehow still managed to pull off behind bars. “And he would have gotten on his knees and been a good little boy like he always was. Like you were.”

Alexander knew Washington wanted to tell someone about what he’d done. Washington felt a sense of pride in having evaded prosecution for so long under the laws of the land he governed. But Alexander also knew that Washington was too smart to come out and confess. He was more likely to imply it in inadmissible statements, to hold it over Alex’s head, just to see the torment play out one more time. “The letters. Why did you write…?” Alexander pressed the issue again, picking up a white envelope and unfolding the letter inside. He schooled his expression before quoting, “ _['There is something to be said about watching the light drain from a young one’s eyes, your hands around their beautiful throat. He was like a son to me – they all were – but in the end, there are always less troublesome, more obedient children to be found.’]_ Who are you talking about?”

Washington’s smile evaporated, tense lines making their home in his expression. The silence was heavy, threatening to drown Alexander in its current, too powerful to listen to reason. Alexander wondered if he should have just taken Thomas’s advice and never come down here.

Alexander gauged Washington’s expression before picking up another letter. “[’ _His blood sinks into the carpet, and I worry someone will discover our secret. I have gone too far. He is barely breathing, and I wonder if it is more merciful to perhaps suffocate him as he is.’]_ Is this about the same person?” Alexander continued, “[’ _I think better of it. His mouth is so beautiful, and I believe I will miss him.’]_ It seems like you cared for him.”

Washington tilted his head slowly, cracking his neck, but made no move to speak.

“Tell me who he is, please.” Alexander didn’t want to beg, but he had to know. Washington could always see right through him, and the façade of control wasn’t working. He knew Washington had murdered someone, and there was a reason those letters were sent to him personally. His hands selected another, and he continued to quote Washington’s words back to him. “[’ _I regret my actions in that event. I wish he hadn’t provoked me so. My sword still cries tears of his blood; I can never wash it clean.’]_ His family deserves to know.”

“And what of all the men you killed in the War, Alexander?” George challenged, “Is it no more a sin, because they wore different colours?”

Alexander’s eyes were tired, but the gears in his head had turned fast enough to figure out Washington wasn’t referring to any enemy soldier in the letters.

“You killed one of your own..?” Alexander realized aloud. He said it as a question, but he had no doubt in his mind that it was the truth. Alexander’s jaw dropped, hand shaking as he went to cover his mouth. When all the pieces were put together, it was clear. Still, he had to be sure. He regarded Washington carefully. For the first time, the disgraced general seemed unsure of himself, chains jangling as he wrung his hands. “[’ _He fought valiantly on the battlefield, wanted nothing less than to sacrifice himself for love of country, but he didn’t struggle in the end. He was the most obedient, and I loved him dearly.’]_ Was it Lafayette?”

Washington stood, shaking his head. The disgraced general rested his weight upon two clenched fists, shoulders slumped over and inwards, and Alexander watched as he trembled with some unknown emotion – if it wasn’t Washington, Alexander would venture withdrawal. But it was Washington. And it had been almost thirty years. What did the man have to lose?

 “Being president isn’t easy; tell Jefferson he’s doing a good job,” Washington said. His voice was hollow and robotic, as though he was no longer in control of it. He didn’t smile, just stared into the camera in the corner of the room.

Alexander gambled, “Lafayette loved you more than anyone.”

Washington slouched in the direction of Alexander, the only indication that he was listening. As he released the tension in his spine, he quietly raised his head to beam at Alexander. Washington’s smile was white, wide and bright, and caused Alexander to wonder for a second if perhaps he’d gotten it all wrong.

“He did, didn’t he,” Washington said thoughtfully. He stood, laughing, though it was loud and humourless and harsh. “Tell Thomas that Laf was better with his tongue.”

It was an admission of guilt, but Alexander found it hard to celebrate. Lafayette, who had been declared Missing in Action, by now considered legally dead, had been murdered by Washington.

 “Why did you kill him?” Alexander asked.

George looked Alexander in the eyes with a fierceness that Alexander had only ever seen almost two decades ago, in Columbia.

“Why did you send me the letters? Why not John Jay, or James, or Thomas?”

George’s lip twitched at the corner, but still, he didn’t answer.

As the silence stretched between the two men, George decided to rest his forehead on the cool, metal table. He rolled his neck to the left, until he was facing the door. He didn’t blink, just shuffled around his clothing. Alexander rested his palm on the table, studying Washington. Before long, the man’s shoulders began to shake against the table, and Alexander didn’t have to look at his face to know he was crying.

“If you’re not going to answer my questions, I will take my leave.”

Washington raised his head just high enough to look at Alexander, no more commanding the great authority as when he first sat down. “I am sorry… Alexander, for all the things I have done to you, to Thomas, to…” Washington cleared his throat, “Lafayette.” His left hand started wiping the tears from his eyes, cuffs jangling with every movement. “I couldn’t help myself, and I worry every day that Thomas will follow in my footsteps; I do not think I could live with myself if he did. I…”

It was what Alexander had come for. An apology. And he would request the security tapes, just so he could watch this moment again and again. He waited for Washington to continue, but when the man stared dumbly at the door, Alexander stood to leave.

“You know the State will have to charge you with Lafayette’s murder…?” Alexander prompted.

Washington laughed softly. “And since when has the State succeeded in a posthumous conviction?”

“Post…?” Alexander didn’t get to finish the word. George dragged the shiv across his throat and collapsed to the ground, blood spurting from his carotid arteries. “Guard!” Alexander yelled as he yanked off his jacket to use as gauze. The wound was bright and shiny, pulsing dark red as the pool of blood quickly encroached on more and more floor space. Washington’s eyes were glassy, and his grinning teeth were stained red. The gurgling of the giant gash was all Alexander could hear besides the banging outside. The rest was a blur; Alexander remembered being pushed aside at one point, paramedics taking over to attempt in resuscitating Washington.

Alexander took the town-car back to the White House in silence. He had worried about staining the interior, but when the driver had seen him – all small and bloody and shivering – she had waved him in with a sad smile on her face, and told him not to worry about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr @ jaimesselfishmachines ^_^


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